Monotony, or Not
by ZiYu
Summary: An hour in the life of the Dark Assembly Guide. late-AAPA!verse.


**Disclaimer:** If I owned, everyone would be robbed of an awesome game. Obviously, no one is suffering, so Disgaea isn't mine.

**Notes: **_Ad Astra Per Aspera_ has surpassed 500 hits! Thank you everyone for reading and giving it a chance! To celebrate, I am—uh. Not...updating. –is shot–

To the important part of the AN: part two of AAPA has the greatest blanks in my notes. I'm half-considering winging it, because I really wish the characterization and everything is strong enough that the story would just write itself, but. Um. So after chapter seven (in-progress, which isn't saying much, seeing as how I almost always wind up writing those chapters in a single sitting anyways when the mood strikes), updates for AAPA may or may not become even more sporadic.

Now. About this fic. I wanted to write a short piece (this was supposed to be a drabble!), just to practice handling descriptions. And then hey, I figured I'd let you guys have a sneak-peak at something that could be easily snatched from late-AAPA. So yeah. Think of this as proof that it will see its end. Pleinair in here is a bit different from current AAPA!Pleinair, for obvious character development reasons. Also, Flonne just popped up; don't ask me why (I haven't written anything for her yet though, so might as well).

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><p><strong>Monotony, or Not<strong>

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><p>In the Netherworld, an infernal silence echoes.<p>

Not to say that there never is any noise—there is. There is always the crackling of flames and brimstones bleeding into lava; the sound of skeletal birds screeching and rubbing ivory bones from their perches on dead willows; the dull, uneven clunks of wooden pegs as Prinnies mill about the mahogany carpets of the grandiose castle.

There is almost always some sort of sound, the clicks of polished nails as spidery fingers drum together or the tinkling peel of echoing laughter that makes silver cobwebs tremble.

But in this odd time-frame when the hour is trapped between night and dawn, the light filters through darkness-coated window panes and sends dust motes swirling through the air, throwing everything into sharp relief as lengthy shadows creep up faceted brass walls and claw at corners tucked too far away to reflect any color—at the far end where no light directly washes over the surface, the walls are tinted a metallic blue.

In this hour, the silence rings loud and true.

It is that delicate time when the nocturnal drift to deep slumbers in the bedroom wings, impenetrable walls muting soft snores. Yet it is also too early for the humanoids to rise, so the air in the castle settles thick and heavy over empty corridors, no puff of breath to stir the stagnant air.

Except one. A pale-skinned demon swathed in even paler fabric languidly leans back against wrought iron gates, her head of blue hair the only thing to confirm that her washed-out presence is more than a colorless ghost in a wide room of frozen shadows. She sighs softly, a half-hearted hush of breath in a weak attempt to drive out the silence that pounds in her ears. The guide to the Dark Assembly peers out of one thin panel of glass to gaze at the sky, more blue than black now, and dusted with the faintest streaks of light.

Beyond the teleportation cage, the senators must also be snoozing on their seats in the Room of Bills. And further past, in the Halls of Beginnings, the yet-to-be hired minions must be—Pleinair stifles a groan that quickly morphs into a yawn. She raises an ivory hand to drape over her mouth, then shifts it to rub at her drooping eyelids. She doesn't want to think of the massive sleeping huddle that she would need to wake up with blazing gunpowder if a demon comes seeking fresh recruits.

Instead, she turns her eyes—colored crimson, so lusciously red that it is impossible to see the lines of blood vessels that must have already spread like a spindly network across her eyeballs—away from the window and, pulling the red-trimmed rim of her right sleeve between nails and palm, polishes her already immaculate gun. The barrel catches the streaming light and reflects it as patches of white, but during this early hour there really is nothing for her to do. Simply standing guard in front of a silent gate as per orders of her job description could only be entertaining for so long, after all.

But then, the unmistakable sound of muffled footsteps pricks at pointy elf ears. The sound is light and almost fluttery, as if the one approaching is much more accustomed to flitting about on wings than planting her feet solidly on the marble floors. Pleinair idly quirks up a quizzical eyebrow; there was only one resident in the castle who would walk like that. The angel trainee—_assassin_, Pleinair recalls with mild amusement (it doesn't show on her face)—was up and about oddly early. Not that it was any of her concern.

The footsteps come ever closer though, and Pleinair figures she must amend her plan of ignoring the angel. She lifts her head up, and unsurprisingly sees a dainty blonde waltzing straight for her, shifting rays forming a glowing halo on top of her head.

"Good morning!" Pleinair sends a curt wave her way as she stows away her firearm. Flonne's voice is chirpy, light, like a bell ringing on a tower washed in afternoon sun, sprinkled with the almost-ever-present tones of happiness and affection. It echoes and reverberates off the ancient walls. She turns her head to the window panes, and the giant blue bow on her head bounces and sways with the motion. "It's going to be a nice day out today."

Pleinair swivels her head to the slit-in-the-wall again, somewhat slowly due to her drowsiness. "The sky is a grayish blue," she remarks dryly, not seeing how the weak light and thick churning clouds that promise acid rain could ever be taken for the signs of a 'good day'. Then, training her voice into more professional tones, she says, "What do you wish to do at the Dark Assembly today?" She tilts her head to the side, blue bangs falling into her right eye. "Maybe create another pupil at the Halls of Beginnings? An elemental mage."

"Nope!" Flonne giggles into the loose sleeve of her powder-snow dress. "I haven't learned all the spells from my last pupil yet; I'll need to head over to the training field in the castle gardens later, if Laharl is willing." She pauses, a bemused expression encroaching upon her casual smile. She lifts a finger and scratches at her chin. "Come to think? How does that work anyway? Um. Shouldn't it be the pupil learning spells from the mentor?"

"Ah," Pleinair returns a wry smile, "it must be a bit of a culture shock to you." Her tone falls into her standard Dark Assembly tutorial lecturing voice, and she lifts her forefinger to idly tap at a stylistically twisted iron bar, adding a new note to their duet of voices. "Remember: demons have a habit of getting their way by any means, including," she makes an emphatic pause, "their own pupils."

"O..o-okay..." Flonne trails off, still evidently confused. Pleinair wonders briefly if she should ask once more what the angel wants; being awake around the clock makes her bad at handling small talk in the mornings. Before she can open her mouth to voice her inquiry again, Flonne hops slightly in the air, and takes a few prancing steps to sidle beside Pleinair at the gates. "Laharl's become nicer lately, right?" She beams, resting one hand above her chest where her heart beats steadily away. The other hand outstretches to catch a few dust motes that whirl gently in the air, like a child attempting to catch a fairy. "I knew he had a hint of kindness in his heart!"

If this was before, when Pleinair was still inexperienced and awkward and couldn't help the shadows of thoughts that slipped across her face, she'd have lifted both eyebrows at the odd question. Now, though, she turns her disinterested gaze away from Flonne's face, training it instead on glossy marble floors. She can see the hazy outlines of their two polished reflections, standing side by side: in some other world, it could be seen as the picture perfect shadow of two twittering teenage girls; in the now, only a mocking specter. She decides to humor the angel trainee. "Well...he's stopped trying to extort money from the senators so often. Three times this week rather than the usual fifty-six times."

Flonne blanches before her expression becomes pouting. Her aura radiates dissatisfaction as blond eyebrows crease, and she abandons her quest to capture the rising dust motes, sky-blue ribbon descending in quiet flutters. "Fifty-six times?"

Pleinair nods neutrally. "Once every three hours, exact to the second-hand."

"How greedy!" Flonne draws herself up indignantly. "Miss Etna says he has a lot of money saved from allowance!" A sharp intake of breath puffs up her cream-colored cheeks like a blowfish as she slowly eases air from the corner of her mouth. "But I'm glad to know that his heart isn't consumed by the claws of greed anymore!"

_...Or because it simply doesn't pay. The senators are just as stingy, and when they finally passed the bill they only coughed up 301 Hell for the Prince_, she chooses not to elaborate. Instead, her monotonous voice becoming somewhat clipped with a tinge of impatience (she _really_ doesn't see where this conversation is heading) as the next two words drop from her lips like crinkled leaves whispering on a breeze: "I suppose."

Unperturbed, Flonne flaps her miniature angel wings again as pristine heels clack against the floor. "I think I'll go see Hannah now before Laharl wakes up." She lifts an arm to wave towards the eyes-lidded Dimensional Gatekeeper; only that cleric could doze off standing ramrod straight. "Talk to you later!" And with that, she pirouettes off to the other end of the room, the distant glow from beyond the windows now trickling to the once-blue wall. Clack. Clack Clack.

Pleinair releases another sigh as she brushes a few bangs out of her eyes; they fall back right away anyways. Briefly, she casts bored eyes over to the blue portal that the angel trainee has already half-stepped into. _That_, she muses, _was a bit—_

"Pointless," a voice surmises, like water dripping into the darkness of a sea. Pleinair flutters her eyelashes in brief succession, but otherwise gives no indication of surprise. She doesn't turn, either; _he_ is obviously nestled comfortably against the closest jut of wall, cloaked in the heavy draperies of inky black shadows.

"Not quite what I was prepared to think," Pleinair responds idly, studying the ends of her hair as she pulls a few locks between ivory fingers. Then: "Now you're coming for small talk too?"

"I'm afraid not," he says, and Pleinair can just picture the amusement glittering like icicles in cold blue eyes. She certainly can hear the inkling of a smirk. "Rather than dally with idle chatter, I'd wish to request a brief audience with those in the Halls of Beginnings."

Pleinair groans for real this time as she gently bangs her head against the cage. With undisguised exasperation, she bites out, "They're asleep. Definitely asleep." Almost as an afterthought, she tacks on, "...and why are you prowling around so early?"

At once, the silence descends, slinking between them like a lazy fat cat. It stretches like a rope of rubber bands, until the quiet roars so loudly that it feels like they've been muffled—pressed, _stifled_—with thick curtains, Netherworld volume settings turned to 'mute'.

She rolls glassy orbs to the back of her skull. "Point taken," she mutters, then settles for asking instead, "What for?"

"Nothing significant. Recruiting a few ninjas for the guild."

Another thrum of silence. Eventually: "Fine," she wearily grinds out, "I'll go wake them up. Wait here for a moment." She steps into the teleportation cage, iron-gates rattling shut with a resounding shudder as a whitish-blue light whisks her away to the Dark Assembly.

A few distant clamors, yelps, and not-so-few curses later, the gates rattle again and Pleinair calmly steps out, pocketing her gun back into its holder strapped onto her leg. She nonchalantly claps off the dust of gunpowder on her hands, and she glances back to the cage with a casual shrug. "Welcome to the Dark Assembly," she announces belatedly. The tone of professionalism is a thin veil for her amusement as a small smirk tugs at her lips. "The slower ones are—ah. A bit singed, but otherwise they are now presentable."

A shadow of a smile works its way onto an equally pale face, she knows, as he murmurs a low "Thank you." Pleinair's eyes slide closed as she presses the heels of her palms to tired eyelids, and the barest rustling of fabric ghosts past. She notes the ringing absence of clicks from leather boots: _again; comes with the profession._

The gates slide shut, iron scratches against iron, as if announcing the return of lulling quiet again. The silence falls misty and dark, and Pleinair accepts it as the beginning of another day in routine.

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><p><strong>–Fin.–<strong>

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><p>P.S. Whut. Is that it? Yes. No massive spoilers for you! –Cackles–<p>

P.P.S. I envy those who can pull out metaphors at the drop of a hat.

P.P.P.S. Out of curiosity: how many of you follow **Katekyo Hitman Reborn**? Thing is, while thinking about outlining part two in more detail, I winded up. Uh. Prewriting for a KHR fic that includes an AAPA OC that appears way later. –points up– Tis a very, very roundabout way to solidify characterization. Yeah. Stupid. Anyways, once AAPA is done, I was wondering if I should write it. Or just toss that fic in the trash. Thoughts?


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